HSL (Holmes Sign Language)
by LyricalSinger
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft have a discussion, as only they can. Written as part of The Heart of Camelot 2014 Holiday Exchange.


A gift to Jill C as part of "The Heart of Camelot" 2014 Holiday exchange. She asked for "a typical encounter between Mycroft and Sherlock". Excellently beta'ed by sarajm.

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><p><span>HSL (Holmes Sign Language)<span>

As John struggled up the seventeen steps to the flat, arms weighed down with Tesco bags – on of which had given way on the trip home – he stopped at the first landing and narrowed his eyes. Something was different. When he'd left, Sherlock had been standing by the fireplace, violin in one hand, pencil in another, working on a recent composition.

Now, the flat was silent. Not the easy silence that indicated an empty room. No, this was a tension-filled silence that could only mean one thing: Mycroft.

Gripping the bags firmly, John continued up the stairs, into the flat, and through to the kitchen. Placing the groceries on the table, and rescuing the oranges that threatened to roll to the floor from the shredded bag, the doctor glanced into the sitting room. Sure enough, Mycroft was sitting in John's chair while Sherlock was lounging in his.

There was no sound coming from the two men, but after having spent so much time with the brothers, John was not under any misconception that there was not a very tense discussion occurring between the two. Foreheads were furrowed, eyebrows were rising and falling, eyes were flashing, fingers were twitching, and Mycroft was sporting his supercilious _you-know-in-the-end-you'll-do-as-I-ask_ smirk.

John Hamish Watson, ex-Army Doctor and crack shot, was, in essence, an adrenaline junkie willing to step into almost any situation and could defend himself with nothing more than his two fists. Yet, despite Sherlock's comments to the contrary, he wasn't an idiot and there was no way in _Hell_ he was going to step into that room and risk coming in the line of fire, so to speak.

So, instead, John puttered around the kitchen putting away the groceries and setting the kettle to boil. Meanwhile, the two men other room shifted in their seats and the tension in the room ramped up to previously unheard-of heights.

The abrupt _click_ of the kettle shutting off broke the silence and suddenly Mycroft was looming in the kitchen door. While the politician looked cool and calm, his white-knuckled grip on his umbrella told a different story.

"Oh, um, Mycroft," stammered John. "Leaving already? The kettle just boiled, if you'd like some tea."

"No, thank you John. I've got to head out now or I'll be late for a meeting with the Prime… well, let's just say the less said about that, the better," answered Mycroft as he turned and stopped in the entryway to the flat. Turning back to his brother, he added, "Sherlock, remember what we've discussed. And for goodness sake, you're a grown man. Stop pouting. I'll see you on Sunday, John." With that parting salvo, Mycroft disappeared down the stairs.

"Wait, what, Sunday? Sherlock, what is he talking about?" asked John as he turned to his flat mate.

The Detective was curled up in his chair, his arms grasped tight about his legs and his face buried in his knees. An incomprehensible muttering issued from his obviously-upset friend.

"Sherlock? I'm sorry, but I didn't understand you. Is everything okay?" asked John.

"Fine, everything's fine, John," snapped the Detective as he quickly stood and reached over to grab his violin. "But you'll need to keep Sunday free. A car will be here at 10:00 to pick us up."

"Pick us up? I don't understand. Where are we going?"

"Mycroft has blackmailed me into going to Sunday lunch at my parents, and you're expected to be there as well."

John stared at his flat mate, trying to process everything that had gone on in the last ten minutes. Deciding that trying to understand the Holmes boys would lead to nothing more than a headache, John turned back towards the kitchen, intent on his tea.

As the Doctor stood at the kitchen sink, waiting for the tea to brew, a voice called out from the sitting room, "And I don't pout!"


End file.
